Wayside Stations
by The Sugarfaerie
Summary: "The first time was about living." Six cities on the road to something more. Prequel to 'Human, Slightly Worn.'


This is a prequel to 'Human, Slightly Worn,' but it's not necessary to have read that one first (since timeline wise this fic comes first). I hope you enjoy it! It's quite smutty.

Disclaimer: Nothing you see here is mine.

* * *

**Seoul**

The first time was more about living than fucking.

Clint threw her against a wall while she tore at his belt, and it was fast and brutal, too quick to really enjoy it.

Afterwards they had to run to the extraction point, dodging enemy fire. There was no time for talk.

**Moscow**

Seven months later Natasha burst into the safe house after meeting a mark, her face covered in half-dry arterial blood. She unclipped her holster, grabbed a handful of his shirt and kissed him so hard he saw stars.

She bit his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair and growled in his ear, "Fuck me or get out," and never let it be said that Clint Barton disappointed a lady.

Afterwards he had scratches on his back and carpet burns on his knees, and he was still catching his breath when Natasha rolled away from him and pulled up her panties from where they were tangled around her ankle.

She kept her back to him as she stood and brushed out her messy hair, and Clint's fingers itched to pull it, to see how much she could take. "We're meeting Ivanov at midnight," she remarked casually, as if he hadn't spent all that time screwing her into the floor until she screamed. "Get up."

**Athens**

It was Natasha's turn to keep watch with the binoculars, and her everything from her expression to her body language cried pent up frustration. She did not have a sniper's patience, the kind that allowed Clint to spend hours looking through scopes on baking rooftops or freeze his ass off in abandoned warehouses. Natasha preferred to be in the thick of things, whether undercover or in combat.

His eyes followed the tense line of her spine. "You okay, Tasha?"

"This guy's never going to show up," she grumbled, rolling one arm forward like she wanted to work out a sore muscle.

"Here, let me help." Clint pushed himself up from where he had been sitting on the floor and stepped behind her, making sure to telegraph every move.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and started rubbing. Natasha made a small appreciative noise and leant back towards him so that their bodies touched, all without looking away from the binoculars.

He worked his way further down, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't spent hours replaying their last encounter in his mind, remembering how warm she felt under his hands.

He moved to stroke over her stomach, his thumb slipping under her shirt and the tips of his fingers teasing the edge of her pants, noting the shift in her breathing. "Can I do this for you?"

Natasha shivered as he stood by her side. "Mmm, yes."

"Eyes on the target," Clint warned, and dropped to his knees in front of her.

**Tokyo**

The fourth time he never wanted to think about again.

"I'm sorry," he groaned, his face beet red. "This normally never happens…"

Natasha was understanding. She shot the interrupting battle robot's head clean off.

**Rio**

They were on separate missions in the same city and Clint had an idea of where Natasha was, but he still wasn't expecting her to be sitting at the bar when he tried to order a drink in his cover persona's terrible Portuguese.

"Allow me," she pronounced, sidling up and resting a hand on his. Her tight silver dress left nothing to the imagination and Clint swallowed as she spoke to the barman. Of course, her Portuguese was perfect.

"I'm Natalie," she said, looking at him from beneath dark lashes.

"Jason," he returned, acknowledging her cover. "Waiting for someone?"

She took a sip of her drink, lingering on the straw. "Not anymore." She put down the drink and slid close to him, grabbing his hand. "Dance with me."

He had no idea what sort of game she was playing, if her mark was in the club or if this was all part of her cover, but damned if he wasn't following her.

Natasha moved into the throng of dancers, drawing him in and turning so that her back was to his front when she began to twist her body to the music.

She placed his hands on her hips and began to grind her ass against him until he hissed and tried to angle his crotch away from her. Natasha threw a wicked grin over her shoulder and faced him again, winding her arms around his neck, her breath teasing him as he brushed his fingers across the bare skin of her back, then up, stroking her shoulders.

Lips parted, she kept up that sinful twisting of her hips while her eyes locked on his, and if they were not in a public place he would bend her over the nearest flat surface in a second.

Two could play at this game. He flicked her hair to one side and tipped her head, exposing her throat to his callused fingers, watching as her eyes fluttered closed. He replaced his fingers with his lips, his free hand sliding down to rest just above her ass, and was rewarded with her quickening pulse and a soft moan in his ear.

"Want to get out of here?" she murmured, playing with the collar of his shirt.

_Fuck, yes._ He gave her his best wolf grin. "Darlin,' I thought you'd never ask."

Natasha gave a low laugh. "Meet me in your hotel room in ten."

She melted into the crowd and Clint didn't bother to wonder how she knew what hotel he was staying at.

He forced himself to take his time, wandering over to the bar to pay his tab and keep a straight face while all his thoughts fixated on the gorgeous redhead in the silver dress. His hotel was only a short walk across the square from the club but it felt like forever.

His heart raced as he swiped his key card to unlock the door to the darkened room, and there she was.

The light from the streetlamp outside made her almost unearthly, her hair, eyes and lips standing out against her china skin, and Clint just stood there, stunned, unable to move.

She let her dress fall to the floor and for the first time he could let himself appreciate her body. Their other encounters had been too hasty, too rough to even bother with being fully naked. She was stunning, her pale skin shining in the dim light, and he pulled her against his chest as he undid her bra, kissing her until he could barely breathe.

He stroked the curve of her breast and her breath hitched; he smirked. He lowered her onto the bed, kissing down her stomach, wanting to find every possible way to make her come undone.

She arched in pleasure when she finally flipped him on his back and slid down onto him, clutching his arms and crying out, and God help him, his heart clenched until it hurt to look at her, and when release hit him he bit back her name.

He woke when the dawn light filtered through his window and his shoulders felt cold. He half opened his eyes and stretched out a hand, finding nothing but air. Frowning, he rolled over and opened his eyes fully.

Natasha was gone.

Her clothes were gone from the floor and the only sign she had ever been in the room was a faint scent of perfume on the pillow. He lay on his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

_What did you expect, Barton? She isn't stupid._

He rubbed his hands over his face. "Good for you, Nat."

**New York**

Clint didn't mention Rio when he saw Natasha again on base, and she seemed content to act as though nothing had happened.

It was good, really. Getting involved with colleagues was a bad idea, which was why Clint met women and took them home, always making sure the night was memorable, but never gave an indication that there might be more. Sleeping with his partner was yet another entry on the long list of Things He Should've Known Better Than To Actually Do, and if this was the way Natasha wanted to play it then Clint couldn't argue. She could do so much better than a thirty-eight year old divorcee who was once sent to kill her.

His eye fell on the calendar in the locker room as he cleaned his bow. September 15. Only a week until the day he and Bobbi called it quits four years ago. They met when she had finished university and he was fresh out of the army during S.H.I.E.L.D training and tried to unite against the loneliness, only to discover that they didn't have much in common. When he signed the papers that ended their marriage he responded by having a disastrous rebound fling with a young trainee agent that he managed to screw up so badly he still couldn't look her in the eye. Natasha was smart to avoid all that.

He poured too much polish on the cleaning rag and his bow slid out of his hands.

"The anniversary is coming up," Clint confessed over a post-mission beer.

"Marriage or divorce?" Natasha retorted. She never did like to beat around the bush when she wasn't undercover. Probably why she got along so well with Agent Hill.

"Divorce. Four years."

"I'd offer you a shoulder to cry on, but I'm in Chicago that day." Natasha stole fries off his plate while Clint stared into the abyss of his glass. "I could stop by the next morning if I'm back," she offered, and Clint acknowledged it with a grunt.

Natasha's forehead creased into a frown, like she was expecting more of a response. Clint downed the rest of his beer in one swallow instead, and Natasha sighed. "See you later."

The voice at the back of his mind told him that he was making a mistake, but that did not stop Clint from accepting the offer of a few drinks with some members of his strike team on the anniversary of his divorce.

Bishara left after one beer, clapping Clint on the shoulder as she laid some crumpled bills on the counter. "Don't stay out too long, Barton," she warned as she waved goodbye to the others. Clint mumbled something and Townsend raised his glass in an already inebriated salute.

Several beers later Andrade left to meet up with his boyfriend and Clint turned down Townsend's offer of splitting a cab fare home, leaving him alone with an empty beer glass.

"Can I get you another?" a voice piped up behind him.

He turned to see a young woman in jeans and a tight t-shirt, head tipped to one side, giving him a shy smile. She was pretty, with streaks of red through her dark brown hair and a button nose, a girl working up the courage to make a move on the older guy, and she didn't resemble Bobbi or Natasha in any possible way.

He leaned back against the bar. "Sure you can."

He woke up to a splitting headache and the sound of Jennifer- or did she say her name was Veronica?- picking her clothes off the floor.

"Uh, hi," she said, going slightly pink. "I'm running late for class."

"Class?" Clint shot upright. _Please tell me you mean college._

Jennifer-Veronica finished dressing and grabbed her bag. Canvas. Stuffed with books. "I should get going."

"Yeah, sure, uh, hang on," Clint rambled, clambering out of bed and pulling on sweatpants. He wiped his sweaty palms on the fabric. "Let me get the door."

He had unlocked the door and was pushing it open when she balanced on tiptoe to kiss him. Then-

"Oh." Natasha stood in the open doorway, two tall paper cups in her hand, dressed in a long navy coat and a black silk scarf, curls tumbling from her clasp and her cheeks tinted pink from cold.

Veronica-Jennifer blanched, pushed past Natasha and raced down the stairs.

"I guess you're all right after all," Natasha observed, her voice oddly pitched.

"Nat, it's not…"

"I'm not an idiot," she snapped, thrusting one of the cups she was holding in his direction and looking him up and down. "We've got a briefing at ten. A shirt might be advisable."

Clint stared at the cup, dumbfounded. "You hate Starbucks."

Her face twitched, and she turned back down the stairs without a second glance.

Three weeks.

Three weeks and not one word.

Technically Natasha still spoke to him about mission stuff, but he was monitoring her while she did an undercover job, so any communication was delivered in the syrupy tones of Cynthia Pritham-Valchek; private secretary, which, professionalism aside, was really fucking creepy.

Natasha was blonde for this job, with crisp suits and glasses. She didn't even look like herself.

When they were back in the New York office he tried to catch up with her outside the elevator. "Tasha, wait."

She did not break her stride. "Let it be, Barton."

The elevator doors closed behind her and Clint had to grit his teeth to keep from punching the wall.

When he got back to his apartment Clint tipped every alcoholic beverage in his fridge down the drain and threw the bottles and cans into the dumpster by the alley. His father hit the bottle; hit Clint and his momma too, and finally hit the big oak tree on the street corner. Bartons and booze did not mix, and the past few weeks were proof.

He sat down on his sofa and turned on his neglected TV set, flicking through the channels in an attempt to find something interesting. After a few seconds he ruled out the movie channel (James Bond marathon), the news channels (too much like work) and any channel showing pretty young people with perfect teeth ruining each other's lives. He ended up staring blankly at a cooking show that consisted entirely of cupcakes.

A pink-faced blonde woman was demonstrating what she swore was a fail free icing technique when there was a loud knock on Clint's front door.

There were only a handful of people at S.H.I.E.L.D who could bypass the security systems he had designed in the hallway, but that didn't mean an enemy couldn't potentially figure it out. Clint grabbed his handgun just in case. "Who is it?" he called.

"Hawkeye." Natasha. _The hell?_

He opened the door and she stalked in without so much as a hello, throwing off her long coat. He turned around and nearly dropped his gun.

She was wearing nothing but six-inch heels and lingerie.

Clint placed the gun on the counter. "Tasha," he croaked, careful to keep his eyes on her face. "What is this?"

She cocked her head to one side, her curls falling over one shoulder. "I would've thought that was obvious."

Before Clint could say anything she stepped up and pressed her lips to his, her fingers resting against the back of his neck. Gasping, Clint tore his face from hers, grabbing her shoulders and holding her away from him. "Whatever the hell you're doing," he forced out, staring into her eyes, "Stop it now."

Natasha laughed in his face. "When did you become so high and mighty?"

"Are you serious?" Clint released her shoulders and moved back, he could not be near her right now. "Three weeks. Three weeks of radio silence, and now you want to fuck me again? Why are you here?" He tried to keep his voice calm, he failed.

She gestured between them wildly. "I have to get this… whatever this is, out of my system."

"I'm so glad to be of service to your itch."

A slight flush rose on Natasha's cheeks, but Clint knew her well enough to recognise that it was out of anger, not embarrassment. "I didn't hear you complaining." Her lips thinned. "Besides, you made it clear that you have plenty of options."

"Options?" Clint swore under his breath. "I woke up in Rio and you were gone, Nat. You fucking _left._ What was I supposed to think?"

"I had a job to do, Clint! I had to get back before…" she broke off, dropping her eyes to the carpet. "Before the mark realised I was gone."

"How could I know that when you never even told me what the hell you were doing in that club?"

"I wanted a drink and a dance. I saw you and I thought…"

"Thought what, Tasha?" He stepped forward, leaning into her space, but if he touched her now he would never let go. "Do you want me?"

"Yes," she admitted breathlessly, hands holding his face as she leaned her head against his."Yes."

When she kissed him this time he did not pull away.

It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. Her tongue sought entrance to his mouth as she cradled his face in her hands, kissing him deeply. He brought his hand up to tangle in her hair, coaxing a small noise of surprise from her, and it was like something had been let loose inside him, something thrilling and terrifying all at once, and when she wrapped her arms around him he picked her up, her strong legs locking around him as he settled them to the couch. She nipped his lip and he shuddered, dizzy with want, lowering his head so he could scrape his teeth against the smooth skin of her neck.

"It's like going mad," she whispered, rolling her hips. "All I can think about is fucking you."

Clint's brain short-circuited. "Really? All the time?"

"Yeah." She kissed him. "Always."

"Oh?" he drawled, giving her a filthy grin and holding her in place so he could start to rock her. "Do you touch yourself?"

Natasha bit the corner of her lip, eyes glittering. "Sometimes."

He pushed down one of her bra cups so he could suckle. "Do you come? Do you get off thinking about me being inside you?"

Natasha laughed. "Dirty bastard."

He stroked the damp silk between her legs. "Tell me what you want."

Natasha's head fell back, her lips parting on a soft moan. "Make me come, Clint."

Clint could feel how fast his heart pounded in his chest. Slowly, he slid the straps her bra down and undid the back. "Then this will have to go."

He sucked and licked at her breasts until she was practically writhing in his lap, then pushed her panties aside and slipped a finger inside her.

"Oh god, yes," she cried, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she ground down on him. "C'mon…"

Clint needed no further encouragement. He thrust with his fingers and put his mouth to work on her breasts, closing his teeth on a nipple before circling it with his tongue. Natasha's hands gripped harder for leverage and suddenly she clenched down on his fingers and reared back until her hair brushed his knees, and he had to catch her hips to stop her from falling.

His jeans felt painfully tight as she sat back up, still breathing hard. Her lips were swollen from where she had bitten them and something flickered across her face that Clint couldn't quite catch.

"Bedroom?" she panted.

"Absolutely."

He moved his hands under her ass and lifted her up as he stood, kissing her thoroughly. The way to the bedroom took much longer with an armful of Natasha and by the time he finally lowered her down onto the bed he felt like he was about to explode. Natasha sat up as he hastened to strip off his clothes, a cheeky smile playing on her face.

Clint kicked off his boxers and before he realised what was happening Natasha knelt in front of him, wrapping her lips around his cock.

"Fuck, Tasha, you don't have to do that…"

She paused to look up at him, her fingers closing around his length. "I want to," she said simply, and went back to it. She sucked him hard and Clint tried every mental trick he knew to keep still and stop himself from thrusting or grabbing her hair, until it became too much and he grabbed her arms. "Easy, darlin,'" he managed shakily. "Don't want to end things too early."

Natasha rolled her eyes, but it was playful. She flopped gracefully onto the bed while Clint fumbled in his bedside drawer for a condom. When he turned she was on her back, one knee raised and bent, her arms above her head in a way that showed off those gorgeous breasts. "Get over here, hot shot."

He felt the grin spread across his face as he joined her on the bed, leaning down to kiss her. She pulled him down on top of her, hooking her legs around him until he was cradled between her thighs, and his need was overwhelming, but he had to know first. Bracing himself above her on one hand, Clint brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "Is this okay?"

Natasha studied his face, like she was searching for something. "Yes," she murmured. "It's all okay."

She kissed him as he pushed into her, hitching her leg up around his waist, and nothing could be better than having her here, in his bed, in the first real home he had tried to scrape together for himself. He was lost in her, always, from the very beginning.

Natasha whispered filthy words of encouragement into his ear, slipping between Russian and English and back again. Her eyes were wide with abandon, damn near laughing as they moved together, as if she was _happy, _truly happy, and nothing could have prepared him for this.

He could feel himself nearing the edge but there was no way he would get there without taking her over with him. "C'mon, Tasha," he growled, thrusting his hips, and he could feel her walls start to clench down on him. "That's it, come…"

She cried out, locking her arms around him as she came, and there was no way he could hold on.

When Clint opened his eyes all he could see was red.

He raised his head and there she was, her bare back to his chest, hair gleaming like living flame in the early morning light. She had one hand tucked under the pillow, shoulders rising and falling as she slept, and he could drown in her right there.

The thought was overwhelming.

He lifted his arm from her waist and started to move as quietly as possible, but of course she stirred, stiffening and sliding her hand further under the pillow like she was feeling for a gun.

"Shh, relax," he murmured, kissing her shoulder blade. "It's just me."

The corner of her lips twitched and she sighed, rolling onto her stomach.

Clint's heart stuttered while he looked at her and he swung his legs out of bed, walking into the kitchenette. He rummaged in the cabinets for two clean mugs while he waited for the kettle to boil and then started smearing bagels with cream cheese out of a need to have something to do.

Natasha sat up when he brought in the tray laden with bagels and coffee, the sheet pooling around her naked waist, and he hesitated in the doorway, trying to clear his throat. Was this real? He was the luckiest bastard alive.

He set the tray down on his bedside table and slid under the sheets with her, swallowing as she immediately tucked herself against his side.

"So," he ventured, wrapping an arm around her. "Want to go out later? See a movie, take in the town?"

Natasha smiled, her hand travelling from his chest down under the blanket. "Maybe tomorrow."

Clint chuckled as their lips met. Breakfast would have to wait.


End file.
